


Golden

by haydenupchurch



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: ??? - Freeform, Angst, Time Travel, a bad time, also bad times route parallels i suppose, great googley moogley it's all gone to shit, hopefully i actually finish this, idk - Freeform, like some, not exactly but, right???, this is going to be angsty hold onto your seat, this is gonna be.... hell, whatever, you'll see I guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-04-29 21:15:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5142677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haydenupchurch/pseuds/haydenupchurch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a flicker of insurmountable grief. repeat. repeat. repeat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Ruins Are the Gathering Grounds for Fragility

Time has repeated itself again and again, but in a less literal sense than the unwonted occurrence that was an actual repeat in time. Deja vu plaguing everyone like a pinprick, for the most part unnoticed, aside from a small body who passed down into a lit bed of golden flowers once more. From an outside perspective you could say this occurrence was like clockwork, but for those being observed it was just an extremely frustrating experience that left words on the tip of tongues and inexplicable emotions dwelling within many. With every loop there was a single _click, click, click_ ; with every _click_ there was a flicker of insurmountable grief. The _clicks_ grew more rapid, as did the grief, and by the end of such a process you're left with something under debate of being inhuman, a force, if you may. This force is Golden and its liveliness is unwavering, though full of malicious intent.

What is the capacity of animus in a human? Surely this capacity is reduced significantly if placed in the palms of a child. I suppose this notion is wrong; a child-with their developing state of mind-is easily befouled by any passing uncertainty, the corruption exploiting the susceptibility of such innocent youth and thus completely altering how the world may be perceived through the eyes of that youth. The change is gradual, and, much like the deja vu, it plagues in pinpricks.  _Click._ _  
_

The snapping of stems can be heard in a small patch of flowers, irradiated by streams of light intruding through a large hole superior to the land surrounding the golden blossoms. Pitter-patters amplify tenfold from the cavernous realm which the source circulates, prowling the area for any life that may be in hiding. Once satisfied, the footsteps pick up to a regulated pace until stopped abruptly by a vine pulling them down full force. Their face was enshrouded by dirt and other earthly elements such as grass and gravel; an angry groan ringing from their throat as they came to the realization they now sported a chipped tooth. Picking away stray earth from their tongue and chin they gradually grew upright to a sitting position where they were met-face to face-with a smiling blossom. How unholy. A low hum comes from the flower, buzzing around the room. The flower looks incredibly content with themselves, eyes closed and lips upturned into a serene smile. The flower's petals curl and uncurl with the tune of their humming and the child takes the opportunity to leave. Standing up and brushing away stray dirt from their pants, they lift their foot from the ground, ready to get moving wherever, but before it can once again meet the ground there are white pellets surrounding them in a ring, holding them where they stand. The flower now displays a distorted smile on their face, looking incredibly pleased with themselves. 

The flower opens their mouth to speak,  _"in this world,"_ they pause and draw the pellets farther back, but instead of bracing for impact, the child crouches and dives for the flower, wrenching it away from the dirt it was rooted in. The pellets drop with small thuds and the flower-now being wrung in the child's hands-looks appalled by the capability of this child. They drop the flower to the ground after plucking away some of the petals and rolling them between their fingers. They too let the petals fall. The child lifts their hands and the withering blossom braces itself to the best of its ability, but the child just does some signs with their hands, slowly so the flower can keep up.

_"It's kill or be killed."_

The flower seems to realize and gives a wan smile. The child pays no mind to this and continues walking to the doorway, a single faint crunch can be heard from under their feet.

Mindlessly passing through puzzles designed to keep people out as if they were the one who conceived them, the child finds themselves kneeling in front of a tree; though the ground's leaves were abundant, the tree was barren. The child felt a pang of longing course through them as they turned a single leaf over in their hands, eventually closing their fist and then opening, releasing a small gust of air through their lips, watching the dust of the dried up leaf scatter from their hand to the floor surrounding them. They let themselves thud onto the floor, their legs sprawled in front of them. On further examination of their shoes you could see a small layer of ashy grey dusting their entirety, some even creeping up onto their pant leg, or the skin in between.

A sweet and familiar aroma filled the air around them, it smelt like a comfortable home in the middle of fall, matched with fallen red and yellow leaves and a slightly cool breeze, enough to nip and tickle the skin around your face. It smelt much too familiar and that same sense of longing became overwhelming to the child, their breath hitched in their throat and they felt a steel ball sitting in their stomach, weighing them down.  _Cinnamon or butterscotch?_ A voice rang through their ears and they weakly signed back an answer despite the fact no one was there. 

A voice gently brushes the air around them,  _"Butterscotch_ , _right?"_   it calls out. The child signs back a name in the direction of the voice- _Toriel_ -and in response, the voice chuckles, and then the chuckling stops and it's replaced with an uneasy silence. The child stands up, knees daring to give out, and with wobbly steps they approach her. "I have many things to ask you," she pauses for a moment, looking up at one of the fruitless branches, "but I suppose that can wait, come  _my child_." 

The child doesn't follow when she begins to walk though, the child simply looks at their hands, and then to Toriel. She gives a small look of confusion in response, and the child signs out the words "I need to leave the ruins." Toriel's face contorts to anger and back to a smile, and she turns to the entrance of her home.

"Only come when you are ready," she states before exiting.

The child simply walks the premises turning everything once living to dust under their hands. The dust brushes off easily, and just as easy as it was there, it was gone. 

The walk back to the room with the tree was silent and that same uneasiness between the child and Toriel swished around their stomach, but with every step this uneasiness became lighter, and with every step there was newfound serenity.  _Isn't it easy to forget what you've done without physical evidence besetting you? It's as if you never even did it, right?_   

As the child walked into the entrance behind the tree a tune rang through the halls, growing gradually with every step; it was a comforting and careful tune, every noise was intentional and every swoop of the music was enticing to them, drawing them further into the halls and around corners to the source, a small music box sitting on a shelf in a room down the hallway to the right. A pair of small shoes hung out of a box, and children's toys littered the ground surrounding a small bed. Their limbs felt like dead weight standing in this room, far too familiar for their liking. They fell onto the bed, comforters shielding them from any negative thoughts, one may suppose this is the reason they were named _comforters._ A sweet aroma puffed out from around the child's body and held tightly around them, embracing their body and gently cradling them as a mother would do, rocking them until their eyes grew tired and longed for rest.

 _Creak._ The child's body jolted upright very quickly, head whipping around to face the door where they were met with a startled looking face. Toriel shook it off and smiled graciously at them, "oh Frisk," she spoke, daydream in her eyes, "you made it." Her eyes darted to the plate in her hand and she gingerly held it forward, waiting for a glance of approval from the small body kicking their legs nervously off the ledge of the bed. Their eyes softened at the monster, looking at slightly singed skin on her hands. Frisk recalled that once, in some other timeline, some other place, Toriel had soft hands that could coax you out of a nightmare with ease and certainty. This recollection of memories screamed that it was from experience that they knew this, it screamed that they had been here a hundred times before, it demanded to be acknowledged. 

Toriel sat the plate down after a few moments, and quietly let herself out. Frisk plopped onto the ground, listening to the soft clicking of the music box, staring at their dirty shoes and then to the pie sat directly in front of them. A break cut into the music and silence filled their ears, bringing on a feeling so unyielding it forced them to rise gather themselves and stand, wobbly knees stabilizing.  _Determination._  It clouded their thoughts and guided their feet out the door and into the hallways of the house, gentle tip-taps echoing profusely in large empty corridors. Their feet swept over steps, the silence between each stair amplifying ten times over as they practically hovered over steps, landing never faltering from a light feather touch to each individual stair. They flew through the halls, only slowing when they saw a break in the straight path. 

"I know you do not want to do this," a soft voice came from around the bend, sensing their presence; "this is not you, I know you. I...." she trailed off as Frisk made their way around the corner. Toriel stared at Frisk, desperately trying to grasp at a fleeting memory, "no... I do not know you." Toriel's voice wavered slightly, and she clenched one hand, her smile was hesitant and her body was quivering. Frisk's eyebrows furrowed gently as Toriel steadied her hand and raised it slightly, bringing a barrage down onto Frisk's frail body. "This will make it easier for the both of us." She brought down attack after attack, the child was scraped and scratched, knees beginning to feel weak under the weight of their own body.

The child stared up, looking lost, trying hard to find something, concentrating on Toriel's eyes. The memories of her teetered between being saturated saccharide memories that were simply placed there by their subconscious and being honest to god memories from some other time, they rippled like water and were broken up as easily as they were touched. _I do not know you._ Frisk looked down and pulled out a stick from their back pocket that it had been previously half stuffed into. They just threw it to the ground, and looked back up at the monster that resembled a goat.

Toriel stood there dumfounded for a moment, and then raised her hand once more. Frisk's eyes grew wide and in response they pulled a small plastic knife from the band of their shorts, leaping at the monster before she could bring on another attack. Steadily they readied their body for at least one more hit, but when they looked up Toriel looked completely astonished, "my child," she whispered and closed her eyes. Frisk looked at her hand that had been outstretched towards them and grew unsteady at the idea that the magic looked to be an orange color rather than the blue they had previously been bombarded with in combat. Toriel let out a soft chuckle, "do you really hate me that much?" She whimpered taking Frisk's hand, "no... this is my fault," she stated after. Slowly her form deteriorated to thin strips, unraveling to reveal a small white heart that trembled before breaking. A small plastic knife dropped to the ground and heavy feet turned away from dust. Tiny feet trudged up stairs and into piercing silence, removing their shoes and replacing them with warm slippers that hung from a box, their body weighed down in the comforters, but they somehow felt less sweet this time around.


	2. Fondness is a Warmth Tainted by the Uncertain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shit boy i die. sorry about this. also here's a playlist for this fic http://8tracks.com/burgerpantsed/it-could-have-been-different  
> aaaaanyways... heh..

A small bed of flowers clad in a golden color surrounded the child. They nuzzled the child, fitting snug around their fragile frame. The blossoms gave off a warm scent, like sun rays that tickle your skin while the sun has just begun setting. They embraced the child more fervently, beckoning for them to stay a little longer, which the child obliged. They opened their eyes when the flowers began to feel less welcoming, their gut dropping a bit as they felt the stems of the flowers stretch and snake around their wrists, tangling tightly at their chest. They looked straight above them but the twinkle of light was soon replaced with the same grinning flower they had seen earlier that day. "Howdy!" The flower yipped happily, face smiling broadly without a care in the world. "I'm FLOWEY! FLOWEY the FLOWER. _Why did you kill me?"_ The flower's voice began drooping deep and slowing down, and the child struggled to break away from the vines encasing their arms.

The Flower's face melted, distorting into something that no longer resembled a face, what looked like wax dripping down their petals. The wax came so close to the child's face that they instinctively scrunched it up, eyes squeezed shut so tightly it was as if they may never open again. All at once the heat above the child was gone, as if it were never there. They opened one eye hesitantly and then the other, much to their horror the wax was forming something new, carefully molding itself into a body. The yellow wax that once held the shape of 'FLOWEY's petals gradually darkened into shades of blue and purple around the already formed body-which was a shining white, so pure and clean, not a single flaw in the hue-, layering onto it.

"I'm _TORIEL_. Caretaker of the _RUINS_ ," the wax spoke slowly, "may someone stop you-" the wax began melting once more, "-or _God have mercy on their SOULs._ " The wax did not form something new this time, but as it dripped, coming dangerously close to the child's body, it turned dusty and grey, a familiarity to it haunting them as it filled the air around them, holding place like some kind of coffin. The vines held them tight and the more they thrashed the tighter the once welcoming stems gripped their wrists and torso, they snaked farther around their legs leaving them practically immobile, helplessness pushing at their heart and causing them to spiral further into panic. Then, within an instant, it all collapsed, the force holding the dust away, that is, dust drowning the child and completely engulfing them until there was nothing left.

_Click._

Frisk wakes up with a particularly harsh thrash, ragged breaths and silent gasps for air breaking up the serene atmosphere that coated the room. Tears flood their eyes and they violently wipe them away as soon as they form, escaping from the bed as quickly as their body would allow them, opting for the floor and then collapsing under the weight of a sea of dust. Their fists pawed at the carpet roughly, as if they were trying to find remnants of  _her,_  some way to bring her back maybe. Their teeth clenched tightly in the realization that this is what they chose for themselves, tears threatening to spill out of their overflowing container. With one last sniffle they picked themselves up and collected their belongings, slipping their feet into the fuzzy booties which had been kicked off in their sleep.

They quickly carry themselves out of the room, and then down the stairs, and finally to a small pile of dust. Their knees threatened to give out but they kept themselves moving, careful steps guiding them around the remnants of pleasant memories and out of the home, into a corridor that extended out past Frisk's field of vision, seemingly endless. This hallway did not smell of anything, it was cold and unwelcoming, just a subtle reminder that the memories that sometimes tingled at the front of Frisk's mind were real and this was the aftermath of that pile of dust that still sat untouched in the doorway. Frisk's hands clench and release, nails sometimes doing more than just grazing the skin of their palm. No matter how many times they look at how pristine their figure was-aside from a few cuts on their knees and a mixture of scrapes and nail marks on their palms-they could feel an ashy substance, thick and restless. It tickled at their stomach and served as a reminder that physical evidence does not beset you as emotional evidence does.

With feet made of lead they make their way to the end of the hallway, gripping hard at the fleeting determination, reigning it in like someone trying to keep gas in an open container. The exit was even colder than the hallway had been and Frisk's frail hands shivered as they pressed against the heavy doors.  _How do you feel anything at all?_ They sat at the open doors for quite a bit of time, shifting weight between feet frequently like the movement might jolt some sense of feeling other than guilt into them. Eventually-deciding the only thing that could come from standing in the freezing doorway would be frostbite-Frisk pushed their feet forward until there was the crunch of snow under them. The crunching beneath their booties masked many other noises, but also caused them to hear things that were not there. A rustling could be heard from their left and they whipped around, cool air biting harsher at their cheeks with the motion. There was a bunch of bushes clustered in one area, and, upon further inspection, the glistening lens to a camera could be seen. The sight of the recording device brought throbbing into Frisk's head, beating memories into their skull harder and harder with every second that passed. They pressed a hand to their forehead, and it felt as though things began clearing, as if the memories were lighting conducting themselves to the lightning rod that was Frisk's hand.

A name came to mind, but as quickly as it came into focus it was fading again. They steadied themselves as they popped up, holding onto bushes on either side of the camera for extra support until they were sure they could stand on their own. Releasing their grip on the mass of twigs and leaves, they stared daringly into the camera once more. A single hand rose to sign out an 'A' but then dropped when they couldn't pull the rest of the letters out of the bowl of alphabet soup. Somewhere deep in them they knew exactly what letters had previously been arranged, but they supposed now wasn't the time for them to come together.

Somewhere else a short yellow body clad in a lab coat that hung over their hands felt these same frustrations, screwing their face up in thought and then sighing, letting their head hang down in defeat. They tore their glasses off and threw them somewhere else, letting their hands run over their face in anger before opting to call it a day, sulking up the escalator, into their room and onto their bed.

Frisk continued walking, their head whipping around after almost every step, swearing up and down they heard a crunch to their left, or a twig snap from behind. They stopped for a moment and took in all the air they could manage, letting it slip past their slightly parted lips to form a small foggy cloud as it escaped. They wrung their hands nervously, their legs seemingly stuck in place. No matter how much they tried to urge themselves forward they couldn't muster up enough motivation to actually lift their feet and keep moving. For a great deal of time they just stood there in a debate with themselves on whether they should just give in to the cold and let it freeze over them, or if they should continue and see what the future had in store for them. Though they had been through this motion hundreds of times before the future still seemed unsure and vague, fogged over by some unholy cloud that would not let them reach properly into their memories of previous ventures through this same place. 

Chills ran through Frisk's body, lingering on their spine and caressing their back with a smooth embrace that made their flesh crawl and their body quake. The chills drew lines through their body with such a familiar intensity that a sense of well being attached itself to the shivers, coming in flashes throughout their body, starting with their toes that were previously curled for warmth, and working it's way up to their mind. Warmth spread over their body as they leaped around and held their hand out subconsciously, a piece of them comprehending everything much faster than the rest and bringing them to haste decisions. By the time the rest of their mind had caught up with what was happening they realized they had completely flipped their body around for a handshake with the cold and biting breeze for no reason besides the fact some level of their mind had said that it felt like the right thing to do. Harsh flurries of wind mixed with snow were cut off-as well as their wandering train of thought-by the sensation of something gripping their hand.  _  
_

They trailed their eyes from their extended hand to the one gripping theirs, and then up to the blue cloth clad around the wrist of that hand's owner, past the furry hood that caught snowflakes in the small hairs, and up to a purely white face that was stretched wide in a never faltering smile. Cheekbones protruded at either side of the face and right above were sunken in pits that were seemingly endless, void of color and boundaries. Dim lights began shining in the sockets until they became as purely white as the face of their owner, as pristine as untouched snow coating a field in winter. Frisk simply stared, and tried to pull out a name, their free hand fiddling around as if the letters would come to them naturally. 

"i'm sans. sans the skeleton," the person in front of them spoke in a rich voice, closing their right eye before continuing. "you must have some sixth sense to pranks considering you were just standing here waiting for my handshake..." Frisk's eyes dropped down to their hands that were still locked together, "i didn't even get to pull out the whoopee cushion, how upsetting." Frisk couldn't manage to tear their eyes away from the bony hand that gripped theirs.  _Was this what always happened?_ _  
_

Sans released his grip from the child's hand and opened his right eye back up, though his eyes drooped questioningly, staring at the fidgety child. He continued with the same dialogue though, as if it were a script that he had read through many times before. "so, you must be a human... well i don't really care much for doing anything; my brother papyrus though! oh boy is he gonna flip when he sees you! he has this dream of catching a human and becoming a member of the royal guard. anyways, he couldn't hurt a pup... actually i think he might have one time, built an entire extension to our place to nurse 'em back to health... it's really just a garage. i don't even think he's the one who hurt the pup." Sans stopped for a moment as if trying to catch where he was going with his story, "basically i just want you to play it up for him, give him some entertainment. i'll be sitting back... doing nothing..." Sans winked and guided Frisk farther down they path they had previously been walking on. The duo came to a wooden bridge surrounded by what seemed to be a very wide gate. "yeah, just walk right through. papyrus made it wide enough that practically anyone could get through," musing at the impressive handiwork-but very poor fortification-his eyes turned starry, "he's something else." Sans paused for a moment, halting his train of thought so he could jump back on, and then continuing, walking through the bars himself and gesturing at a little lamp that, for some unknown reason, had been pushed into the snow. 

Frisk felt instantly compelled to stand behind it-which could have just been its convenient shape-and so they did. Their body felt strange, fitting perfectly to the edges of this lamp, what was the purpose of even having it out there? They peered around its edge as they heard hurried footsteps approaching with a loud squeak of the skeleton's name. A piece of them felt warmness spread, a pleasant feeling, similar to when you dip your fingertips into warm water. They thought about this pleasant feeling and why they were here, they thought about as much as their mind would let flow past this strainer, which only let bits and pieces of these larger memories come through. Frustration should be what tugged at them, yet these memories were entirely imbued with fondness. Such a feeling of tenderness tarried these memories that it left the child vacant of any hostility.

The child was thoroughly elated, the picturesque scenes from another time flitting throughout their mind, they didn't seem so far away, and perhaps they weren't. When they came to the situation at hand it was by a loud laugh, unnerving to the child's ears as they were shook from the warm memories and back into the reality that was being molded around them. Frisk stepped from behind the lamp to stop the boisterous character from their quick escape, to ask them questions and possibly get some blissfully unaware answers, but they were gone and Frisk was becoming unsure of what they were going to ask the fleeting figure anyways.  _Was it about a movie? No... Those were memories, weren't they?_ Frisk stood in front of that lamp, squinting at something that was not there, and at some point their feet started carrying them forward and into land seemingly uncharted.

A voice called out from behind them, "hey, kiddo," the voice stopped for a little while and Frisk did a one-eighty to make eye contact with him. The skeleton seemed on edge, adjusting his weight from foot to foot restlessly. Something was uneasy about the entirety of the situation and Frisk also found themselves shifting apprehensively, the crunch of snow being the only thing that could be heard between the two. "he'd really like to see a human, if you could play along with his charades, i'd really appreciate it," he spoke up, enveloping the air with his voice. This message was, in every respect, the same message that Frisk had heard hundreds of times, and the same message that Sans had uttered hundreds of times, but something about the way its tone settled into the atmosphere was disconcerting. The child held out a hand to sign something in response- _but Sans flinched? Something so small it could have been a trick of the eye, it was but a simple hesitancy with his smile and a twitch of his left shoulder_ -but decided against it and dropped their hand, opting for a nod and another one-eighty in response.

Frisk felt snow collecting in the strands of their hair as they continued forward, snowflakes fluttering down and kissing their skin, melting seconds after impact. They did not look back as they walked, holding a sense of urgency in them, they felt as if everyone could see through them, as if everyone could see dust hovering over their skin, or hear the sounds of a queen who has fallen at the hands of another. They ripped down bridges as quickly as they were encountered, bridges that may have once been built up by their own actions.  _I suppose you'd be surprised if you knew how deeply a toy knife could cut if given the opportunity._ They felt a sense of disgust the further their trail of footprints in the snow extended, and when they reached the box containing a small pink glove this same sense of disgust washed through them as they did not hesitate to replace it with the toy knife they had previously been holding. 

This glove did nothing for the guilt, if anything it magnified every single ounce of wrongdoing the child had put forth with their two hands. Every false word they had signed, every particle of dust that had ever been created, every weapon held to perform a misdeed. It all amounted to dead weight, as it should, but rather than stopping, they continued, solemnity filling the aura surrounding them, remorse digging into every fiber of their being. It would be so painfully easy to end the cycle of violence, to repent for the sins that had taken place prior, but something that gripped at their heart made them keep going. It latched it claws on their heart so compactly, this is what  _needed_ to happen; so they persisted through the agonizingly repetitive deaths. It all became the same, it was the same words pleaded by a new face each time. It came in rough bites that sunk sharp teeth into their compassion, gnashing at the virtue ingrained into their soul, their body never gaining a pain tolerance to these, never learning how to hide outward expression, simply going blow after blow to increasingly resistant adversaries.

Frisk, contrary to many beliefs, did not grow more tolerant or calloused to the excessive amount of violence, they did not grow more distant from their humanity; on the other hand there was not a hindrance created from the merciful comportment-which was not outwardly portrayed due to the path they were following-entrenched somewhere deep within their heart that was secured within a den of iniquity. An even-handed self reflection between righteousness and indecency ensued as a result of this, a balanced game of tug-of-war yanking all the proper cords to get them wound up.

There was an unsettling stillness to the air that loomed dreadfully over the child, resting it's hands on their shoulders and caressing their soul. Despite the serenity in the embrace there was an undertone of malice that clung to everything in their immediate proximity. Their feet trudged through the snow, heading north, and coming to a snowman. "Please don't," it whimpered as the child dug their hands into the pile of snow, molding a snowball beneath frosty fingers. "Isn't that enough," it begged, "please," the child held two snowballs in their hands, trembling with abhorrence for themselves, but this revulsion did not stop them from shoving their hands into the snowman once more and pulling out majority of what was left, it's cries for help smothered by its depleting life source. The child put the snowballs away and turned without a word, leaving the pile of tainted snow to be replaced with the fresh flurries that fluttered down, already collecting over it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry idk what im doing. this is probably shit But. it's like the first fic ive Actually continued. yaaawn im not going with progression i suppose  
> i was going to make this chapter longer but i couldn't and didn't want to wait another month before posting one. also the ending point felt right. anyways i hope that you enjoy?? idk


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